Walter Gordon's Resolution.
By Horatio Alger
Step by step, Walter Gordon had sunk from a position of respectability to that of a confirmed inebriate. When he first commenced visiting the tavern at which liquor was dealt out, he did so with a feeling of shame, which led him to go at a time when he was likely to meet few persons. But as the habit grew upon him, he became more reckless of public opinion. Gradually his income from his business—he was a carpenter—diminished; people being afraid to trust him with commissions, for they would probably have to wait a longer time than was convenient. Walter was a married man. At the age of twenty-five he had united himself to an estimable girl, who, though she brought him little in the way of worldly goods, proved an excellent wife. They had now been married ten years, and had one child, a boy of six. Charley Gordon was a bright, rosy-cheeked boy, with merry ways that might have gladdened any father's heart. Of course their worldly circumstances had been sensibly affected by Mr. Gordon's course. Dollar by dollar, the little hoard in the savings bank had dwindled away. Then commenced the diminution of their domestic comforts. It cost Mrs. Gordon a long fit of weeping, when one day the landlord of the village tavern, a rough man, with neither principle nor refinement, drove up to the door, and on her opening it, announced that he would take the sofa. "The sofa!" exclaimed Mrs. Gordon in amazement. "Certainly! hasn't your husband told you about it?" "Why should he tell me?" inquired the wife, not yet suspecting the truth. "He sold it to me," said the landlord, looking shamefaced, in spite of his brazen effrontery. "And without saying a word to me about it?" "That's his affair, not mine." "What induced him to sell it? how much did you give him for it?" "He was owing me a debt—a matter of fifteen or twenty dollars," muttered the landlord. "And this debt was for rum, I suppose," said Mrs. Gordon, bending her eyes searchingly upon the landlord, like an accusing spirit. "Well, and suppose it was. I suppose it's a debt for all that." "You can take the sofa," said Mrs. Gordon; "it is in that room. But I warn you, John Glover, that the riches you are fast accumulating will bring you no happiness. Ruining your fellow-men is a great price to pay for wealth." "When I want to hear preaching, I can go to church," muttered the landlord, a little uneasy in his conscience at the words of his victim's wife, callous as he had become. A month afterwards, the Gordons moved from this comfortable house which they had hitherto occupied, to a miserable old building which had not been tenanted for a long time, and ought to have been pulled down. But it had fallen into the hands of John Glover, the tavern keeper before referred to, and he had persuaded his victim to hire it. Sad days succeeded the removal. First, the physical discomfort of living in such a miserable shell was not small. It afforded scanty protection against the wind and rain; and this discomfort was increased by the deficiency of suitable furniture. All that was good had gone the same way as the sofa. Not a carpet was left, and but a single stove. So they were obliged to live during the cold season in one room. Walter Gordon, however, was seldom at home. It had long since lost its attractions for him, and he was generally to be found in the bar-room, where the landlord was gracious, and his drunken hilarity and jests were appreciated by the company. It was not quite time for the landlord to break with him. He would defer until his victim was completely ruined, and there was no prospect of his getting any more money from him. One night Walter Gordon had remained in the bar-room longer than usual. He remained until all his companions had slipped off one by one, and he was left alone. He, too, would have gone, had he not fallen into a drunken stupor, which left him half insensible to what was going on. Half insensible, I say, for events proved that was not wholly so. At this time a stranger entered the room, and wished to speak with the landlord apart. "I have no fire elsewhere," said the landlord. "You can speak freely here." "But—" expostulated the stranger, pointing over his shoulder at Walter Gordon, who was reclining on the settee. "Oh, that will make no difference. He's a poor drunken fellow, and is far enough over the bay not to comprehend anything that is going on." "Faugh!" said the other, "I shouldn't think you would harbor such miserable fellows as he." "I shan't much longer," said the landlord carelessly; "I've most cleaned him out, and when I have I shall order him off." With this they proceeded to business, which was of a character not to require further attention. The landlord supposed Walter Gordon was too far gone to hear what he said. Perhaps it would not have troubled him much, if he had known that it was a mistake. Walter Gordon did hear the last words that were spoken, being, as has been said, only half unconscious. He had still manhood enough left to feel them acutely. He had never before felt the full measure of his degradation. Now it was presented to him in a way that was humiliating enough. "So, I'm a poor drunken fellow!" thought he to himself. "That's what the landlord says, and he ought to know, for he made me what I am. And yet, no, I cannot say that, for if I had not given my consent, his efforts would have been powerless." These thoughts ran through Walter's mind. Meanwhile the conversation went on, and he heard Glover express determination to have done with him, after he had cleaned him out. This declaration filled him with secret indignation, and yet it was only what he might have known before. But the landlord's manner had been so smooth and polite, that he never suspected the opinion which he entertained of him. His first impulse was to leave the room, but something restrained him. Without appearing, therefore, to have heard what had been said, he continued to lie quiet for a few moments, then yawning naturally, he staggered slowly to his feet. "Going?" inquired the landlord, in his usual smooth tone, and with his hypocritical smile. "Yes, it's getting late," said Walter. "You won't take another glass for a night-cap, you know?" "No, I won't take anything more to-night," and Walter slowly walked out of the room. He did not hear the landlord's sneer: "The first time I ever knew Gordon to decline drinking. He must have taken an overdose to-night." Out in the fresh air a new spirit seemed to possess Walter Gordon. Reflection had completely sobered him. He looked back at the building from which he had just emerged, and exclaimed in a low, but resolute voice: "I will never drink another glass of liquor in that room, or any other place, so help me God!" It did him good to make that resolution. He felt instantly, he knew not how, a conviction that God would surely help him; and, in spite of his ragged clothes, his destitute family, and miserable prospects, he was cheered by the hope of better things. His wife was awaiting him, not with reproaches, for these she felt would only make matters worse; but with an air of depression which pained him to witness. He wanted to tell her of his new resolution, but decided not to do so, till he could give her some decided proof that it would be carried out in practice. For her part, she did not perceive much difference in his demeanor from that which she usually observed. The next morning, early, Walter Gordon awoke, and left the house, his wife supposed, for the tavern. She was mistaken. He bent his steps to the house of Deacon Holmes. "Deacon Holmes," said Walter Gordon, "I have heard that you are intending to build a barn." "Yes," the deacon replied, "I am thinking of doing so." "Have you engaged any one to build it?" "No," said the deacon, hesitatingly. He anticipated what was coming next, and it embarrassed him. "I am in want of work, and will do it as cheap as any one." The deacon looked down. He was evidently trying to frame a refusal. "I would take care that the work was done well." "Yes. I am aware that you are a good workman, but—" "But my intemperance is an objection, I suppose you would say." "Frankly, now that you have mentioned it, that is an objection—the only one I have—but, as you will admit, I think, a weighty one." "It is; I freely acknowledge it. But, Deacon Holmes, I made a resolution, last night, never to touch intoxicating liquors from henceforth." "Do you think you have strength to abide by that resolution?" said the deacon, eagerly. "Are you willing to sign the pledge?" "I am desirous of doing so," said Gordon. "What, may I ask, led you to form this resolution?" In answer to this question, Walter Gordon detailed to the deacon the particulars with which the reader is already familiar. "And now do you think," he said in conclusion, "that you are willing to trust me with this job?" "I will trust you," he said, heartily, extending his hand to Walter Gordon, "God forbid that I should discourage you in your resolution, by a refusal. Perhaps, however, it will be better to employ you by the day; trusting to you to make the job a short one, since you might find it difficult to get trusted for the timber, if you attempted to procure it on your own responsibility." "Thank you, deacon, for your consideration. I have, I am aware, destroyed my credit. I shall be happy to take it on your own terms. When shall I begin?" "I will order the timber to-day, so that it may be on the ground to-morrow. Meanwhile, I have little jobs around the house, sufficient to occupy you to-day." That evening, Walter Gordon came home at six o'clock, somewhat to his wife's surprise. How much greater was her surprise, when he took from his pocket a two dollar bill, saying kindly: "Clara, you must need some money for household expenses." "Oh, Walter," she said, with tremulous hope at his unwonted action, "can it be that you—" "That I have reformed? With Heaven's help, I think I have, Clara. I shall try to be a better husband in the future." There was joy in the humble home of Walter Gordon that night—the joy of a wife who had found her husband, and of a man who had found himself. When John Glover heard of Walter Gordon's reformation, he laughed incredulously, and said: "I shall have him before the week is out." He was not mistaken. Walter Gordon did call on him before the week was out; but his errand was to say that he was about to vacate his present house, and move into a better one, owned by Deacon Holmes. Three years passed by. At the end of that time, Walter Gordon was well, happy, and prosperous, while the landlord had sunk into a drunkard's grave, which he had prepared for so many others.—H. Alger. DIDEROT says: "The best way to educate a child is to tell it stories, and let it tell stories to you;" but why say that this is the best way, since it could never be made complete, not even practical, within the period usually allotted to a child's so-called education? There is a story of a college student who could call a horse by its name in every known language; yet the stable-boy, who only knew the horse by one name, was familiar with the qualities, disposition, uses, and possibilities of the animal, of which the student knew nothing. Any one kind of educating process would fail in its results, it is likely, and the old-fashioned way of lesson upon lesson, with a never-ceasing accompaniment of oral teaching is about as satisfactory as any plan. And after all the "teaching," the children teach themselves; profound ideas go in at their eyes and their ears, and the first wiseacre with opinions which he obtained without knowing when, how, or where.